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Hidden Springs, Delicate Wheels: The Tomb Of Ann Rutledge
[to her memory---the foremost Muse of the American nation as it now exists]
For so long, Lincoln seemed sad, draped in mourning.
Even his humor gave the vague impression
that it was just a brief respite from sorrow---
avoided for the moment, but the morrow
would bring it back, uncharitably, with gall---
like the malicious specter of secession,
that sordid shadow arrogantly scorning
the Founders' sacred Union. Came the warning
amid the tears' hot spill and taste of bile
after his sole Beloved passed away.
Unable to forestall that loss, then, he
became the instrument of Destiny
later---no malice, "charity toward all . . ."
until his warfare ended. Then, a smile
returned, with one last sigh, as a new day---
endless; with Ann---began on that spring morning.
